Take me home.

Suddenly I am back in Mexico City, listening to the sound of the justice league coming back in the picture, and I am sitting in front of a tv with rabbit ears, surrounded by poor mexican children, wondering why I am starving to death.

I watched 300 last night, listening to the crickets chirp, and it brought me back to home, to spain, where I could see the olive groves as far as I could see, and I slept amongst them many a night.  I stole figs to eat, and I lived as bandits do, swimming in the creeks to get clean and eating fruit when I could.  This was the life I wanted, farming, and spelunking when I could, there were times I remembered catching fish with my hands, and cooking them over a fire because I thought that was how it should be done.   I was right, but I had no idea how to properly bone a meal, and I almost choked to death in the wild more than once.

I could have killed my parents on the plane ride home, sure, leeches weren’t pleasant, but preferable to the leeches I found in new york.

How could they?  I was married, I had babies, I love my babies.  Oh what I would have given to have raised my boys in a place where you could still smash almonds on rocks and pick peaches off the trees for dessert.  We could have harvested the crop together and then I would have passed my lore on to them, and our family crop would have stayed in the family. 

No one knows how much it hurt me to not have the mother of my children ever meet my real family, and my children go to the place I should have stayed in.  I could never say it.  Instead, I reproduced with someone who did not have me in mind.  What an oxymoron.

You.  What a moron.

I would have thrived there.  Damn them for ever leaving.

Sometimes she wishes I were never born, well, I wish I were never born either, not here anyway.  This is not home.

I want to go home.  I wish I was born in my home. 

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